Remembering Death
by DrCyrusBortel
Summary: Phineas and Ferb find themselves in Rwanda as the genocide unfolds around them, as do Drakken and Shego. AU in more ways than one. Standalone sequel to the First Space War. Kim Possible/Phineas and Ferb crossover fan-fiction.
1. Chapter 1

_This author does not own the Kim Possible and Phineas and Ferb franchises. This fanfiction was written for personal amusement. This author does not intend any disrespect to the victims and survivors of the Rwandan Genocide, any more than writers of WWII alternate history novels intend any disrespect to the combatants, victims, and survivors of that war._

* * *

 **1993**

 **Flynn-Fletcher Residence**

 **Vancouver, Pacific Columbia, NAAA**

 **Joint Government**

The apartment was clean, well furnished, and tidy. Well, half of it was. The other half was also clean, but littered with stacks of diagrams, proposals, and reports, most bearing the watermark of FLYNN-FLETCHER ENGINEERING™ (a partly owned subsidiary of PEACH ORCHARD INFRASTRUCTURE CONSORTIUM™/桃花源基建集團).

The dining table had, for the evening, been moved in front of the television, and the apartment's two occupants were enjoying a sumptuous meal, courtesy of the take-out service of J.P Bearymore's Pizza-Party-torium.

"Ferb, would you mind passing me the potato slices? Thanks. Oh, cool! The Knowing Channel!"

Phineas turned up the volume on the TV.

"The deep water of certain lakes is saturated with carbon dioxide and methane gas. When such a lake is destabilized, vast volumes of carbon dioxide and methane gas are released, causing a tsunami and creating a cloud of dense, suffocating carbon dioxide that can travel many kilometers, killing all before it. Such a release event is known as a "Limnic Eruption"."

"Ferb, do you know what this means?"

Ferb looked on blankly.

"There are entire lakes out there filled with natural gas! Imagine what we could do with the stuff! And we'd be doing a public service by getting rid of the carbon dioxide too!"

Ferb blinked.

"Okay, we don't own any refineries or chemical plants that we could use, so we'll have to sell the gas… or use it to generate electricity on-site."

"The 1986 limnic eruption in Lake Nyos, Cameroon, killed 1,700 people and 3,500 livestock. Lake Kivu, on the border between the Congo and Rwanda, is nearly two thousand times larger than Lake Nyos, and its shores are home to nearly two million people. A lake overturn on Lake Kivu would be nothing short of catastrophic."

Phineas placed his hand on his chin. "You know, according to the news, Rwanda's been stabilized. It looks like the peace accords'll hold this time."

He continued his train of thought. "It'll be risky. If the place goes under again, our company'll lose millions… but if we can corner the market early…"

Ferb rolled his eyes, and changed the channel. The visage of Administrator Jiang appeared on-screen, beneath the logo of the Government Broadcasting Corporation.

"…our New Silk Road Initiative will enrich all of Eurasia and Africa, including Russia, through trade, commerce, and industrialization. Through the engines of the free market, infrastructure-driven economic growth, and Pacific expertise and capital, we believe that first-world living standards can be eventually achieved for all the peoples of the world. This great project, with all the opportunities it represents both for ourselves and others, perfectly exemplifies Adam Smith's vision of enlightened self-interest, and is a worthy Project for this New Pacific Century!"

Ferb changed the channel back.

"Okay, the Administrator could have turned down the rhetoric at the end."

Ferb tilted his head.

"Yes, the idea is visionary, and the potential is there, but the risks are… oh…"

Ferb raised three fingers, and began ticking them off.

"Hmm… between the subsidized insurance, zero-interest loans, state backing, and tax credits…"

"Ferb, I know what we're going to do today!"

* * *

 **1993**

 **Applied Scientific Research Center**

 **Cleveland, Ohio Province, NAAA**

 **Joint Government**

"…one rainstorm that disrupted the layer of water and KABOOM! Seventeen hundred dead! Imagine the possibilities in a lake two thousand times larger, Shego! Imagine what a single well-placed thermonuclear warhead might do! The terror that would be inflicted! The hundreds of thousands dead! It would cripple a nation for years!"

Shego tilted her head at her longtime friend, and looked around the laboratory break room for any sign of alcohol. She stepped up to Dr. Drew Lipsky, and took a sniff.

"Okay, you haven't been drinking…"

"I never drink, Shego, I always vomit after half a can."

"Uh, Dr. D. If you haven't noticed, there aren't that many lakes that can have these limnic eruptions. The biggest one's in Rwanda, and last I heard, Defense wasn't interested in committing war crimes there."

Dr. Lipsky began to grumble.

"Stupid Somalia stabilization mission. Stupid UNOSOM III. Stupid counter-insurgency emphasis." He mimicked a squeaky voice. "Oh, no, doctor! Changing strategic priorities no longer merit continued research into bomb-pumped x-ray lasers!"

Shego facepalmed. "Oh, Dr. D. Not this again. Teller went overboard on that one, and you got swept up in the mess."

"It would have worked! Teller's lab was crazy! Mine wasn't! We spent YEARS on that feasibility study! We had rigor! And some stupid bureaucrat won't let me go into development!"

"It wasn't your fault. They still need you for that phase B study."

"It'll never get produced… They'll never test-fire my baby in space. Not in my lifetime. I'll never live to see a bomb-pumped x-ray laser go boom."

Drew began to cry.

Shego sighed. "How much do you like this idea?"

"The limnic eruption trigger?"

"Oh, it seems like a delicious exercise. Minimal budget, fieldwork, something completely out of left field…"

Shego nodded. "Okay. I'm in. If you can get a team together, and a budget, I'll be happy to come along."

"Really, Shego?"

Shego nodded. "It'll be just like old times."

* * *

 _In the Real World, the Rwandan Genocide (a dark chapter in human history, to be sure) killed between 500,000 and a million people between April and July 1994. Country-wide socioeconomic (some say Malthusian) tensions and ethnic conflict between the majority Hutu and minority Tutsi group was whipped into horrible machete-mass-murder by a group of power-hungry Hutu elites, who schemed for months to organize, initiate, and manage the genocide._

 _While the Tutsi were most 'affected' by the genocide, murder rates were substantial (5%) in Tutsi-free, all-Hutu communities, suggesting that pressures other than simple ethnic hatred were present._

 _The Rwandan Genocide was eventually halted by the overthrow of the Hutu government by the Tutsi Rwandan Patriotic Front, but the aftermath was… very messy. To its discredit, the international community notoriously did very little to halt the genocide, although it remains very uncertain what could have been achieved by intervention. The fallout from an intervention gone sour would have been immense, and any intervention would have been an arduous and expensive undertaking – and most of the world had only limited interests in Rwanda._

 _Err… thankfully? The fictional Joint Government has accumulated interests in Rwanda._

 _This author is aware that this AU is not very plausible, for reasons left as an exercise for the reader._


	2. Chapter 2

-Suity-up, booty-up, diddly-deedly-da-

"Ferb, where is that montage music coming from?"

Ferb blinked. Phineas turned to the assembled board members.

"Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, FLYNN-FLETCHER ENGINEERING is proud to present project Kivu! As you are all aware, the recent ceasefire in Rwanda is poised to stimulate significant investment by our great nation's corporations, and even light starter industries like apparel production, plastic-trinket making, and food processing require electricity…"

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

The collected brass nodded attentively to Dr. Lipsky's presentation, and nodded in all the right places.

The bean-counter was about to shake his head, but then Dr. Lipsky presented the shoestring study budget. He shrugged. The department needed makework to keep it busy, and the data the scientists would gather could conceivably be of scientific interest.

All the brass shook their heads vigorously when Dr. Lipsky turned to a slide titled "subscale demonstration" and showcasing a giant sphere of TNT.

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

The conference center was beautiful. The room was fuller, the slides were more polished, and the details were more refined.

Phineas kept his gaze on the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank rep sitting through the presentation. At the end, the woman gave him a thumbs-up.

The Rwandan government representative was equally approving, and he shook Phineas's hand vigorously after the presentation.

The limited-time-offer tax credits from the Development Bureau technocrat were also very lucrative.

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

A folder marked "PHASE B STUDY: SITE EVALUATION", "APPROVED", and "TOP SECRET" fell onto Lipsky's desk.

* * *

 **January 1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Before the civil war of 1990, Rwanda's population had been more than seven million. Three years of civil war had forced hundreds of thousands from their homes, driving the population down to just over six million, mostly subsistence farmers working on small plots of land.

Very small plots of land, it seemed. At about 220 people per square kilometer, Rwanda was the most densely populated country in sub-Saharan Africa. Everywhere he looked, Phineas could see banana farms and vegetable gardens. Hills had been cultivated up to their peaks.

"Wow, Ferb! It's just like home, except that they have banana plantations instead of wet rice paddies. Their hillside agriculture could use some work, though. They should really try terracing their hillsides like we do." Phineas winced. "Ooh, someone lost their livelihood in that landslide over there."

Ferb frowned. Phineas laughed.

"This place isn't overpopulated! Oregon Province has what, 400 people per square kilometer, a hundred million people total? And Jiangsu Province has nearly 800 people per square kilometer! Rwanda has barely a quarter of that! More people means more hands, more inventors and more output! High population densities are wonderful for infrastructural efficiency! Rwanda has a bright future ahead of it!"

Ferb shook his head.

"Okay, their government isn't exactly on top of things like ours is, and they don't have capital equipment to boost productivity… oh, look, we're here!"

The land rover drove off the freshly-laid asphalt road, through the gate in a chain-link fence, and onto an expansive concrete apron. A sign proudly proclaiming that the site was a project of the PEACH ORCHARD INFRASTRUCTURE CONSORTIUM-桃花源基建集團 welcomed the small convoy. A big indigo banner insisted that "The People and Government of Rwanda warmly welcome citizens of the Joint Government".

The duo stepped out of their land rover, and looked across the concrete apron of the construction site to the placid lake beyond. To one side were two clusters of containerized buildings - the living quarters for Pacifican and Rwandan personnel. In the center were the beginnings of various industrial plants. And to the right… was a big four-engined Fairchild Republic™ tiltwing aircraft, its wing edge and four turboprops pointed skyward as it descended vertically onto the apron.

Getting a wrench in Rwanda was nearly as difficult as getting a wrench on Saturn's moon Titan (at least until the general-purpose mini-factory was established on Titan in 1985). Nobody made or sold wrenches (or electricity, or gas, or spare parts, etc.) in the middle of nowhere, so most equipment had to be imported. In a landlocked, infrastructure-deficient country like Rwanda, this meant that most imports came with the added cost of air freight – if it could be imported at all.

A Kevlar-vested Buford Van Stomm emerged from the front seat, hefting a boxy assault rifle. "Man, this place is sweltering." He pointed at the tiltwing. "Hey, dinner bell! Couldn't we have taken one of those instead? I don't mind a bumpy road trip, but security in this place ain't top-notch, and I think the nerds up front lost their dinner."

Dr. Baljeet and Irving stumbled out of the lead land rover, and Irving promptly vomited all over the concrete apron. Ferb rushed to the aid of their legal counsel. Phineas walked over to Baljeet.

"What a place, huh?"

Baljeet took deep breaths, and "Indeed. Actually being here is very much different from teleoperating a drone." Baljeet looked at the tiltwing, and squinted. "Hmm. If I am not very much mistaken, that passenger disembarking from the tiltwing is Dr. Andrew Lipsky."

Phineas's eyes went wide. "The not-Teller x-ray laser guy? Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go talk to him!" He turned to Ferb, who shook his head. "We'll invite him over to chat with you later, Ferb!"

They jogged towards the line of passengers making their way across the apron. "Hey! Dr. Lipsky! I'm Phineas Flynn, this is my friend Dr. Baljeet Tjinder. We're engineers working on a project here. We're big fans of your work! Can we ask you a few questions?"

Dr. Lipsky immediately turned around. "Oh, of course. I always spare time for fans." The raven-haired woman next to him rolled her eyes. "Mr. Flynn, Dr. Tjinder. This is my associate Shego, and this is my research team."

They nodded, and Shego waved. "Dr. Lipsky, what are you doing in Rwanda?"

Before Shego could protest, Drew had already begun running off his mouth. "Oh, I'm here to study Lake Kivu. Do you know that there exists a layer of deadly carbon dioxide gas deep under the surface?" Shego relaxed.

"Of course! My engineering company's subcontracting for Peach Orchard. We're building a plant to tap the methane gas in the lake for power and feedstock. We'll be draining the carbon dioxide out too. If we scale everything up, in fifty years or so, there won't be enough carbon dioxide in the lake to trigger a limnic eruption."

"Not enough carbon dioxide?" Drew began sputtering. "Gak… Ngghh…"

Shego slapped Drew's back. "Relax, Dr. D. What happens to the lake in fifty years will be somebody else's problem." She turned to Phineas. "Aren't you a little young to be supervising a project as remote as this?"

Phineas nodded. "Yes. Yes I am."

"He's a semi-independent subcontractor, Shego, he can paddle his own canoe." Drew pinched his chin. "So, you know all about the structure of the lake?"

"We have the data, yes. The latest stuff's proprietary. If you want it, Dr. Lipsky, you'll have to go through official channels."

Drew nodded. "Needless to say. Call me Drew, Mr. Flynn."

"Phineas will do for me. Huh. There's that montage music again."

* * *

-Suity-up, booty-up, diddly-deedly-da-

Ferb inspected a medium-sized floating platform, which tugged on long flexible natural gas pipelines like floats on a fishing line. He gave a thumbs-up. Machinery whirred to life, and below the surface, long pipes dangling from the platforms liberated vast volumes of methane and carbon dioxide from the lake's murky depths. The carbon dioxide was disposed of, but the methane erupted from the platform in a brilliant controlled flare that lit up the pitch-black lake.

Dr. D, trying to take additional measurements, was looking right at the flare when it ignited. "Ahh! My eyes!" Shego shook her head.

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

"Okay, a little to the left…"

The cargo airship slowly lowered a series of cargo containers, containing the electrical equipment that would allow the small CARBOX hydrocarbon fuel cell plant to distribute the electricity it generated.

The relatively lightweight fuel cells were already in place.

One of Dr. Lipsky's echo-sounding explosive charges misfired, blowing a hole in his rented boat.

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

"Gutsy move by your company, coming down the gravity well like that."

Phineas toured a half-built single-cell protein (SCP) plant, decorated with the logo of the moon-based Butterfly Corporation. He passed by vats of special bacteria that ate methane and combined it with atmospheric nitrogen and other minerals to produce edible proteins, checking the flow of methane from his platforms as he did so.

He passed by synthetic protein modifiers, producing synthetic tofu, meat paste, and egg. Such plants had been essential in the Pacific's drive to exploit and settle the Solar System. In protein-starved Rwanda, it would be a (hopefully profitable) godsend.

Lipsky lost control of his teleoperated underwater robot, and Shego painstakingly dragged it back to the surface in a high-pressure suit.

Lake Kivu is nearly half a kilometer deep.

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

Both the SCP plant and the power plant began to take shape, under the delicate, time-lapsed machinations of cranes, trucks, airships, and tiltwings. Buildings topped out, skeletons gained cladding, and milestones were met.

Workers streamed into a cafeteria to celebrate the completion of yet another milestone, and Phineas began giving a short speech. Against his protests, Shego dragged Drew into the cafeteria, his laptop in his hands.

Over Rwanda's capital city of Kigali, a small business jet circled Kigali International, and began its final approach.

-Do-da be-de-da, da-da, da-da-da-

* * *

 **April 6th 1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Phineas raised his cola in a toast. "Congratulations to everyone here on a job well done! At this rate, we'll wrap this project up in two more months! We also still have a lot of testing and de-bugging to do, but tonight… we party!"

The room – packed both with members of Phineas's team and personnel managing other projects - broke into rapturous applause. Phineas bowed.

Phineas descended from his chair, and frowned. "Huh. That was ridiculously fast. Only took us three months to see this project through."

Buford tapped his chin. "Was this mostly-finished before we got here?"

Baljeet shrugged. "I seem to recall us completing substantially more ambitious projects in less than a day."

Shego, near the back of the room, threw back a beer, and sat down next to Drew, who had dozed off on top of his boxy, satellite-link-equipped laptop. She shook Drew awake. "Hey, Dr. D! Everybody on-site's getting wrecked! Like triangle-head said, you can work tomorrow!"

"You know I can't stand alcohol, Shego!"

Shego "Okay. Here, I got you some punch."

"Well, I am thirsty." Drew chugged down the sweet, cloy liquid, which felt oddly warm in his mouth. Memories flooded back. "You spiked the punch, didn't you?"

Shego nodded, and Drew groaned. He got up, and began making his way to the bathroom. Much to his surprise, Shego followed him into a cubicle.

"I'm not faking it, Shego."

Sure enough, as Shego looked on, Drew's face turned pink, and then red. Drew tried to decide whether he was feeling queasy enough to hurl, and eventually decided that an early bedtime was preferable to losing his dinner. He stood. Shego chuckled.

"Good. You kept your dinner. You lost it the last time I pulled that joke on you."

Drakken frowned. "That was what, four years ago?"

"No, that was the KGB trying to pump you for information. I recall strongly advising you not to attend that conference in Moscow."

"I met a pretty girl at that conference…"

Shego rubbed her temples. "That was also the KGB trying to pump you for information. The last time I pulled that prank on you was five years ago."

"Oh. Japan, yes. Annoying crime gangs, trying to steal state secrets… like Klaus Fuchs… traitor… no Klaus Fuch'll survive on my team… never tell anyone about the new lasing medium… state secret… principles are obvious, but the devil is in the details, and that's what they're after…"

Shego laughed. Drew always rambled when inebriated. "Let's get you to your room, Dr. D."

Shego opened the cubicle door, Drew on her shoulder…

…and ran right into Ferb Fletcher. The green-haired man blinked twice, turned around, and continued towards the urinals as if nothing had occurred.

They walked into the messy, spartan containerized quarters, hot from a day under the equatorial sun. Shego turned on the air-conditioner, and a whir filled the room. Drew collapsed onto his bed. Shego facepalmed, and sat down in a chair.

"Well, that was embarrassing."

"Eh, we'll be fine. Fletcher is many things, but a blabbermouth isn't one of them. And if he did blab, who would believe it? Heck, my mother went around with my resume on a billboard, and those blind dates never followed me up."

Shego laughed. "Seriously? Your mother goes to those matchmaker's markets?"

"Past tense, Shego. She walked around the park and everything. I even went along once or twice. You'd be amazed how many desperate parents there are in those shindigs. But I gave up after a few tries. Couldn't be bothered."

"I'd have expected more interest in a guy with a cushy, high-placed government job, a doctorate, and a house."

"Eh. I had less stuff back then. How about you?" Drew awaited Shego's usual rebuke - the spook never liked discussing her private life.

Shego sighed. "These ops don't leave much time for a social life. Actually…" Shego's intelligence-issue satphone buzzed, and she pulled the small, ovoid device out of her trouser pocket.

Intelligence alert. Shego checked her inbox, and a grainy text message appeared on the monochrome screen.

* * *

SUBJECT: RWANDAN PRESIDENT ASSASSINATED

FROM: [REDACTED]

TO: [REDACTED]

CLASSFICATION: RESTRICTED

AIRCRAFT CARRYING RWANDAN PRESIDENT JUVENAL HABYARIMANA AND BURUNDIAN PRESIDENT CYPRIEN NTARYAMIA SHOT DOWN BY MANPAD OVER KIGALI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. RWANDAN ARMED FORCES (FAR) MOBILIZING. LOCAL AUTHORITIES UNCOOPERATIVE WITH UN ASSISTANCE MISSION IN RWANDA (UNAMIR). THREATS AND VIOLENCE AGAINST UNAMIR PERSONNEL AND FOREIGN NATIONALS REPORTED.

ASSASSINATION LIKELY SUCCESSFUL. ASSASSINATION LIKELY TO DESTABILIZE RWANDA. ASSASSINATION POSSIBLE PRECURSOR TO COUP.

SITUATION MOVING FAST.

* * *

Shego frowned. The brief contained no helpful advice as to what to do, no clarification as to the rules of engagement, and was… out of date. But then again, the message hadn't been written primarily for her eyes…

"Shego, what's wrong?"

"Dr. D, start packing and get ready to move. I'll tell the others."

"Why?"

"The Rwandan President just got assassinated, and we're waiting for the other shoe to drop."

* * *

 _Schemes similar to that depicted in this fan-fiction to extract natural gas from Lake Kivu are underway. MIT Technology Review ( s/536656/lake-kivus-great-gas-gamble/) has an article on the subject._

 _Single-cell protein (SCP) factories were built in the Soviet Union in the 1970s. They worked, but the proteins they made were apparently carcinogenic to the cows that were fed them. The kinks could probably have been worked out eventually, but the technology was abandoned. Methane-fed SCP is a key technology for Joint Government space settlement efforts, and is mentioned in the First Space War._

 _Efficient, cheap, low-temperature hydrocarbon fuel cells (the CARBOX fuel cells depicted above) are science fiction._

 _The Butterfly Corporation makes an appearance in the Star vs. the Forces of Evil fan-fiction the Butterfly Effect._


	3. Chapter 3

**April 7th 1994**

 **United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda (UNAMIR) Compound**

 **Amahoro Stadium, Kigali, Rwanda**

Major Isabella Garcia-Shapiro, Joint Government Marines, ran through the tent-filled stadium, bathed in the glow of floodlights. The stadium served as headquarters for UNAMIR, the peacekeeping force tasked with ensuring the smooth implementation of the Arusha Peace Accords between the mostly-Tutsi rebels and the mostly-Hutu government.

If the chatter coming in over the reinforced Marine Expeditionary Unit's battlenets were any indication, UNAMIR had failed miserably. The Rwandan Presidential Guard had threatened, disarmed, and fired upon Belgian commandoes sent to the airport, and violence had erupted across the city. Pleas for escort and evacuation, mostly from Rwandan businessmen and politicians fearing for their lives, but also from foreign nationals, were coming in from across the tiny country.

In the confusing mishmash of international law, multinational chains-of-command, and realpolitik that was this UN peacekeeping operation, nobody knew what to do – or what they were allowed to do.

A crowd of people had assembled at the main gate. Sergeant Zheng, on duty, turned her blue-helmeted head towards the major, and saluted. Isabella nodded. A business-suited man in the front began yelling.

"Where is General Dallaire? I demand to speak to General Dallaire!"

Zheng pushed the man back into the crowd, her truncheon raised.

"I run a joint venture with Texan Textiles, one of your country's companies! I can give you money! You have to help me!"

Isabella's satphone buzzed. She raised the phone to her ear, and her eyes widened in surprise.

"Ma'am? I didn't expect…" Isabella gritted her teeth. "Yes ma'am. When will we be receiving our orders from UNAMIR?" Isabella's jaw dropped. "Has this been discussed with General Dallaire?" Isabella exhaled. "He's at a meeting with the Rwandan military high command. Their chief-of-staff was killed in the assassination."

The marine sergeant turned her head. "Was that the Colonel?"

Isabella shook her head, and leaned close. "No. We've got new orders, and we have to move fast." The short, dark-haired sergeant raised an eyebrow, and Isabella turned to the door. "Let 'em in. Keep this under wraps, sergeant." Zheng nodded, and smiled faintly.

The sergeant opened the gate, and a tidal wave of humanity surged through.

Isabella radioed Colonel Ma. "Colonel, did CENTCOM just usurp our chain of command?"

"Well, we did deploy with Major Williams."

Isabella nodded at the mention of the battalion Security Officer. _Keep this discreet, or we're in trouble._

"Okay. What first?"

The floodlights went out, and a select few flickered back to life as emergency hydrocarbon fuel cells hummed to life.

* * *

 **April 7th 1994**

 **Kigali, Rwanda**

Isabella heard the gunfire before she could see the Rwandan militia.

"Darnit, checkpoint!"

Another man (presumably with a Tutsi ID) was forced to the ground, and a militiaman shot him in the head. Isabella turned to check on the Rwandan family of five cowering in the back of the UN-white Light Tactical Vehicle (LTV). Isabella could see a small pile of cadavers in the corner of the checkpoint. No vehicle traps.

"Corporal, drive us straight through!"

The driver gunned the electric motors, and the small convoy barreled through the checkpoint. Militiamen scattered left and right, and a few queuing individuals dashed through the disrupted checkpoint. The militiamen gunned them down, and Isabella heard a series of pings as rounds struck the LTV's Kevlar armor. The convoy sped on past a Marine position, and stopped at the stadium.

"Get off! Go! Go!"

The family scattered from the vehicle, and the corporal turned the LTV around. "Where to next, Major?"

The battlenet rang her up before she could answer. "Major, we've got a firefight outside the Prime Minister's house. Get back here ASAP and get a response team there!"

Isabella immediately picked up. "I'm at the west gate."

"We'll be over in three minutes."

Isabella looked at the chaos that had engulfed the UN compound. Terrified, exhausted people huddled in groups, exposed to the increasingly hot tropical sun. Overhead, windowless grey helicopter drones buzzed, keeping a watchful eye on the city below. Isabella noticed that the MetalStorm counter-artillery system had been rolled out – as had the battalion APC-mounted automatic mortars. Much to Isabella's surprise, the mortars spun south, and began thumping out shells at a rapid, steady pace.

A pair of unmanned ground vehicles (UGVs) – armored and armed mars rovers – rolled up to her. Behind them, a pair of boxy, wedge-nosed, wheeled armored personnel carriers (APCs) slid into position. Isabella gulped. The Marines had barely fifteen personnel-carrying APCs in the country, and only five were in Kigali. If Colonel Ma had released a pair for this mission, things were getting hairy.

Marines on foot joined them, and boarded her lightly-armored LTV.

"You're not from my company."

The young lieutenant in the back nodded her head. "With all due respect, ma'am, your company is smeared across Kigali."

"I know. Brief me en route!"

The reinforced convoy gunned it, an APC taking up the front and rear.

The lieutenant buckled up. "Dallaire sent a platoon of Marines to pick up the Prime Minister and bring her to safety. They got into a firefight with the Presidential Guard that was supposed to be guarding her. Armed civilians showed up at the Prime Minister's place to join the party. It's Mogadishu all over again."

The previous year, the UNSOM II nation-building operation in Somalia went sour when, in the course of a botched capture operation, a hundred besieged JOINTGOV soldiers killed over a thousand armed civilians while losing twenty of their number.

The Joint Government, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to press forward despite the setback, sending more troops, more money, and more influential infrastructure consortia to make Somalia safe for commerce (this time with a softer line on warlords).

The quagmire remained unresolved.

"How many survivors?"

The lieutenant grimaced. "The shooting started during a standoff. Limited cover, heavy casualties. We're down to thirteen women from an initial force of twenty-eight. Three LTVs are still shooting."

The lead APC barreled through a roadblock, and Isabella watched as a bus was thrown against a storefront by the wedge-shaped nose of the APC. An auto-turret on an unmanned rover swiveled, and cut down the militia manning the roadblock.

Isabella screamed into her mike. "Rover three, stand down! Your butt is in a comfy chair in Guangdong, but our butts are hanging out here! We DO NOT want to antagonize those murderous bastards!" She paused. "It's also against our rules of engagement!"

An RPG screamed towards the convoy, and detonated in mid-air, a victim of a roof-mounted multi-barrel shotgun. Isabella winced. The battalion's supply of countermeasures was limited.

"Oh, boy, they're taking casualties and calling in mortar support. We're out of air support!"

They came up against a crowd of road-blocking angry civilians, who gingerly approached the convoy even as they brandished rifles and machetes.

"You foreigners killed our President!" A man near the front of the crowd turned back to the crowd, and began ranting in Kinyarwanda. The lieutenant began swearing. Isabella grabbed her mike. "Shoot the firebrand, and pop tear gas! Drive forward carefully!"

Rover three complied, and the man collapsed in a spurt of blood. Clouds of tear gas spilled from canisters, engulfing the crowd, which began to scatter. Isabella winced as she felt the LTV bump once, then twice, then four times, then again and again. The Han Pacifican lieutenant looked like she was about to hurl.

"Are we going to get in trouble for this?"

Isabella gulped. "Our mandate lets us use force in self-defense. The firebrand was going to have the crowd rush us." She didn't answer the question.

The convoy stopped, and Sergeant Zheng called in from the roof-mounted turret. "Uh… guys… there's another roadblock ahead. They literally jammed cars together to make that one." The turret barked twice in response to enemy fire.

"Take an alternate route!"

"Checking… crap. The Presidential Guard knows we're coming. They're manning every road within two klicks."

An RPG missed the LTV by a few meters, and exploded in a shower of debris. The trailing LTV's countermeasures finally failed, and another RPG struck it dead center.

"Back, back, back! Get us next to it!"

Isabella jumped out the vehicle, fired a burst from her assault rifle, and ran to the burning LTV, as Sergeant Zheng laid down suppressive fire. She opened the door, and began pulling bodies out of the vehicle. She finished up, and the convoy continued its u-turn, running once more into the angry mob, energized by their victory. More tear gas dispersed them.

Isabella kicked the plastic mat. "It's getting too hot. The LTVs aren't cutting it. We have to turn back."

The lieutenant was aghast.

"We'll go back with APCs. We don't leave anyone behind."

* * *

 **April 7th 1994**

 **UNAMIR Compound**

 **Amahoro Stadium, Kigali, Rwanda**

Isabella marched despondently into the battalion command tent, where a small meeting was in progress. Colonel Ma turned towards her. "I'm sorry about your girls, Major. I should have released the armored personnel carriers for the pickup."

Isabella nodded. The remnants of 2nd Platoon, outnumbered, outgunned, surrounded, and low on ammunition, had been overrun despite mortar support. "Have we been able to contact the Prime Minister?"

Colonel Ma shook her head. "She hasn't been answering her satphone for the last thirty minutes."

"Are we allowed to conduct retaliatory attacks against the Presidential Guard?"

The Colonel sighed. "That's stretching our Chapter Six mandate a little too far. But we may not be on Chapter Six for much longer." She turned back to the assembled command team. Isabella noted the absence of the commanders of the non-JOINTGOV contingents of UNAMIR, and the presence of Major Rebecca Williams, the battalion Security Officer (S.O.).

The Colonel continued her briefing. "In sum, Central Command advises us, the Pacifican components of UNAMIR, to lay the groundwork for a future JOINTGOV-led, UN-approved intervention in Rwanda, and defend Pacifican interests until this intervention can occur. This… may or may not violate our terms of service under the UN. Civilizational Command Authority wants this done completely off-the-books, and in a manner compatible with our UN mandates to foster peace and protect foreign nationals, including our own. Remember: we are a neutral party, and we do business with everyone."

Isabella raised an eyebrow at the surprisingly candid and euphemism-free mission statement. She had expected more ass-covering legality-ensuring weasel words from her commander. At least use "suggests" or "hopes"…

Major Yu raised her hand. "How certain are we that this intervention is actually going to go forward? The Somali quagmire is pretty unpopular back home."

"CENTCOM sounded very certain."

Major Yu threw up her hands. "The overflight rights, logistics, and diplomatic wrangling to get a full Marine Expeditionary Brigade on the ground – it boggles the mind. Even more so if we go in under a UN banner. How long will we have to hold?"

"CENTCOM didn't give a firm timetable."

Major Yu frowned. "Did CENTCOM make provisions for establishing safe zones?"

"That's part of the cover. We slightly exceed our mandate by establishing and defending safe zones in all but name, and use them as intervention springboards once Foreign Affairs railroads the plan through the UN."

Isabella chuckled. "Railroads?"

"Optimistically, of course."

"What does Dallaire have to say about this?"

Major Williams chuckled. "Oh, he's a willing accomplice. Plus, he's Army, and I'm here."

"Rules of engagement?"

"We're supposed to be operating within the parameters of our UN mandate."

Major Yu fumed. "So we still can't shoot mass murderers unless they shoot at us."

"No, we cannot. But we will do what we can."

* * *

 _The real-world UNAMIR was much less well-equipped than this fictional one. Technology in this AU is quite a bit further ahead than in the real world (more so in some areas than others)._

 _In the real world, ten Belgian peacekeepers sent to the Prime Minister's home to escort her to a radio station were surrounded, disarmed, detained, tortured, and executed by the Presidential Guard and militia. Joint Government Marines (operating under slightly different orders) are apparently more trigger-happy._

 _Prime Minister Agathe Uwilingiyimana was killed in a civilian UN compound near her home before noon of the 7th of April. Many other Tutsi and moderate Hutu politicians and businessmen were also killed in the opening acts of the Rwandan Genocide, as the genocidaires moved to consolidate power._

 _To learn how Major Isabella Garcia-Shapiro got promoted to Captain, read The First Space War._


	4. Chapter 4

**April 7** **th** **1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Shego put down her ovoid satphone, and turned to the assembled project leaders and security team leaders.

"According to the embassy, the situation is deteriorating. There's fighting in Kigali, complete with roadblocks. They're telling us to stay put, stay sharp, and await extraction by UNAMIR."

"How long until they can get us out?"

"They're not sure whether things will return to normal soon, and their resources are limited. We have plenty of food, a water purifier, power, and a single-cell-protein vat. Our installation has fences, and we," Shego gestured to the security heads "have plenty of ammunition, light and medium weapons, and… acceptable training. Heck, we have a VTOL airfield. We're at the bottom of the evacuation list."

The China Road and Bridge Company rep spoke up. "And road-building team two?"

Road-building team two was camped out between the investment zone and Ginsenyi.

"They're much further up the list than we are."

"What about the radio broadcasts? Do we need to worry about unrest among the workers?"

Phineas shook his head. "All of them just want to go home to check on their families. They're leaving at dawn."

Shego looked out the window. The sky had turned purple, heralding the arrival of the sun. Phineas noticed the sky as well, and dashed out the door.

* * *

Buford Van Stomm slid a sixty-round magazine atop his M29 caseless assault rifle - a long composite box with a pistol grip roughly halfway along its length - and stepped out into the morning gloom. He walked briskly over to the main gate, where Phineas was engaged in a running argument with a Rwandan engineer on a company car.

"…we really need you here! Our interpreter isn't technically competent enough to translate for us! We won't finish the project on schedule without you!"

The Rwandan engineer ignored him, and sped out the gate.

Phineas, huffing and puffing, stopped just outside the gate, even as a steady stream of Kunming Bimodal Equipment Company™ motorized bicycles – pedal-powered bikes augmented with small hydrocarbon-fuel-cell-powered electric motors – continued to leave the compound.

Buford finally caught up with Phineas. "Dinner bell! There might be a civil war on! The radio's telling people to kill people! The guy needs to find his family! What the heck are you thinking?"

"But the project… our market lead is time-critical… things will go back to normal when the authorities get their act together, right?"

Buford shook Phineas – hard. "Dinner bell! If the authorities regain control tomorrow, the workers'll come to work in a few days. Today, everyone goes home, stocks up on food, locks their doors, and cowers in fear! Including us! Embassy's instructions! So get back inside!"

Phineas shook his head in defeat, and returned to the compound.

Buford watched as the workers' dormitories emptied with the dawn, and was surprised when a troop of bicycles carrying a worker and his extended family appeared at the gate.

* * *

Shego thanked her lucky stars they had at least one Rwandan interpreter – a Rwandan immigrant to the Joint Government - who hadn't fled the site.

"So, what the guy's saying is that the local army officials gave a speech blaming the Tutsi, RPF, and UNAMIR for the assassination, and ordered everyone to kill Tutsi."

The interpreter nodded. "He also saw a gang kill a neighbor of his."

"Was the neighbor Tutsi?"

The interpreter went to work, and shook his head. "No, the neighbor was Hutu, but the gang leader had a grievance against the neighbor – err… land dispute of some sort."

Shego turned to the interpreter. "Ask him if he's Tutsi?"

The interpreter again went to work, and shook his head. "He's Hutu, but one of his wife's grandmothers is Tutsi. But he earned a lot in construction work here, and his family used it to buy land. He's worried his jealous neighbors might try to kill him for his land."

Shego nodded. "So we can expect more people like him?"

"I guess so."

The contingent leader of the Frontier International private security detachment, a retired Joint Government Army Captain, sighed heavily. "What are we going to do with them?"

Shego raised an eyebrow. "Throw them out?"

Flynn was aghast. "We can't do that! The guy worked hard for us!"

The Butterfly Corporation rep, a middle-aged Han Pacifican woman, spoke next. "I second that! If you want a more pragmatic reason for this act of altruism, Ms. Go, kicking out desperate refugees might also harm the reputation of JOINTGOV corporations on the African continent."

Shego raised a finger. "Or… it might convince the Rwandan military that we're harboring fugitives, encouraging them to barge in with Toyotas and kill us all." She turned to the Butterfly Rep. "If the civilizational rep is what you're worried about, harboring Tutsi might also convince every last government in Africa that we take sides in local conflicts, and we can kiss our Belt and Road Initiative goodbye."

Phineas looked skeptical. "That sounds a little extreme…"

Buford Van Stomm, team leader, Carne Murum Security (CMS), crossed his arms. "Why don't we just ask our government for advice? If we're evacuated without the refugees, they're as dead here as anywhere."

The Butterfly rep nodded. "I'll get the phonebook."

The response from the embassy, once their identities were verified, was surprisingly unequivocal. Take in refugees only if you are willing, able, and if the refugees know your staff. Do not give the refugees any weapons. Ensure that the airfield is kept clear for your own evacuation. Open fire only if company personnel or property are under threat.

Await rescue.

A man in a Frontier International t-shirt ran into the room. "We've got a problem."

* * *

A pair of Toyota trucks had stopped at the main gate. Behind it, rifle-toting security guards stood behind small piles of dirt that had been deposited for cover. A squad of rifle-toting Rwandan militia – probably affiliated with some political party or another - milled about outside. A heated argument was under way between a Han Pacifican in a CMS uniform and a Caucasian.

Shego marched up to the Caucasian. "What the heck is going on?"

The man – French, judging from his accent – crossed his arms. "I am a private security consultant for the Rwandan militia. We have reason to believe you are harboring fugitives from the Rwandan government, and are here to search your premises."

Shego raised an eyebrow. The French were known to be opposed to the expansion of Joint Government commerce in what they saw as their sphere of influence in Africa, and, if she recalled her politics correctly, had a history of backing Hutu political movements.

The CMS man began to interject "He needs a letter from the development bureau here to search the…" Shego raised her rifle. Everyone else followed suit.

"No. Leave." Shego looked around, and nodded at Buford's grenade launcher. "We have heavy weapons, and most of us have body armor." She patted her vest. "Your men do not."

The Frenchman backed away. "You cannot hope to defend this industrial park!"

"The property line is a hundred meters back! Stay behind it!" Shego was sprouting nonsense, but that probably didn't matter.

The Rwandans piled into their trucks, and drove off.

* * *

 _The above land-grievance-murder scenarios are taken from Jared Diamond's book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed. They may be a little premature._

 _Author's Note: Real World:_

 _There were scattered reports of French mercenaries operating alongside the Rwandan military for some time during the genocide, and the French were in general supportive of Hutu dominance. The degree of French complicity in the genocide is controversial and uncertain. After the Rwandan genocide, French troops conducted a humanitarian operation which had the unfortunate side-effect of preventing the advance of RPF forces and shielding genocidaires, who were able to escape to a series of giant, most-Hutu refugee camps in the DR Congo/Zaire from which they organized an anti-Tutsi insurgency._

 _But then again, in the real world, the French weren't dealing with greedy Joint Government corporations (and their 'moderate' allies in the Rwandan government) aggressively eroding France's sphere of influence in Africa. How it all pans out is reasonably obvious in the Butterfly Effect series._

* * *

 **April 7** **th** **1994**

 **Space Operations Control Room**

 **Underground Complex, JGSF Chongqing**

 **Chongqing, Sichuan Province**

Commodore (formerly Brigadier-General) Elizabeth "Atomic Betty" Barrett, Cis-Lunar Fleet, Joint Government Space Force, gritted her teeth at the genocide unfolding before her.

The Space Force's low orbit laser platforms, equipped with giant laser optics that doubled as telescopes, gave Betty a front-row seat to the ongoing mass slaughter in Rwanda.

The killing was not yet country-wide – Betty had found only a dozen or so locations with organized killing - but it was spreading fast.

In the cities, military and paramilitary Hutu death squads went door to door, killing all the Tutsi they could find. In rural areas, where villagers knew each other well, people hacked their neighbors to death with machetes and farm implements. All along the way, Rwandan government officials were organizing gangs, distributing weapons, and giving incendiary speeches, the contents at which were hinted at by the cynically manufactured hatred emanating through the airwaves.

Everyone in the control room was on short shifts to deal with the scenes from hell.

A young Petty Officer threw up into a wastebasket at something particularly macabre. He chugged down a glass of water, and went back to work analyzing the… imagery intelligence.

Betty rubbed her temples, and collapsed into her chair, utterly powerless to do anything but watch. She slammed her fist into her armrest, half-expecting to rise into the air before remembering that she was not in space.

The worst part was that she wasn't completely powerless.

The big ultraviolet lasers on the orbital laser platforms could badly burn the exposed infantry on the ground. The beams – lacking the adaptive optics of the imagers - would be defocused, absorbed, and badly scattered by the atmosphere, but they were up against slow-moving, unprotected death squads, not tanks, ships, or aircraft!

The hypervelocity free-fall rods on the rod-dropper platforms could blast Hutu weapons caches with the equivalent of a hundred metric tons of TNT, either in the form of a single, twenty-tonne telephone pole or a large bundle of crowbars.

Heck, the multifunction phased array radars on the laser platforms could jam the broadcasts emanating from genocidaire-controlled radio stations in a heartbeat. They'd actually done it… as a test, for a brief five minutes.

But Betty had her orders, and those orders expressly forbade her from taking any action against the genocidaires.

The Joint Government could not afford to be seen acting unilaterally to infringe on a small nation's sovereignty, especially using its internationally controversial orbiting ring of death. Doing so would jeopardize JOINTGOV relations with and interests in other third world nations. Public opinion was against military adventurism, and in favor of for-profit infrastructure-building.

Worst of all, it was near-impossible to distinguish Hutu genocidaires from the growing bands of Tutsi vigilantes from orbit.

Betty agreed with the arguments, but some part of her still screamed out for her to begin pushing buttons, to save as many as she could, and to hell with the consequences.

The Commodore sighed. Things had been so much simpler before the Soviet Union collapsed, when the primary enemy they expected to fight had been the Soviet Strategic Rocket Forces.

Betty paused. Nope. She had absolutely no desire to go back to hair-trigger alerts, risky provocation runs, and of course, hot shooting wars with the Soviets. She still shuddered when she remembered her ship's brush with destruction during the Czech War.

Betty steeled herself, and got back to work.

* * *

 _The story of Betty Barrett's brush with destruction is told in The First Space War._


	5. Chapter 5

**April 7** **th** **1994**

 **UNAMIR Compound**

 **Amahoro Stadium, Kigali, Rwanda**

Isabella tuned her eyes away from her bulky computer monitor. Rows and rows of people – 'moderate' Rwandan officials, 'moderate' Rwandan businessmen, and of course, foreign nationals – awaited rescue, and the Marines' resources were highly limited.

Beside her, an interpreter kept a close ear on the radio, where the genocidaires blared out whole lists of names and addresses of "traitors", followed by exhortations to murder.

If UNAMIR or CENTCOM wanted to re-stabilize the country, it would need all the government officials and connected businessmen it could get its hands on.

Her satphone rang.

"Hey, Garcia-Shapiro! I checked with the embassy! Lake Kivu Investment Zone is still occupied, and their protein plant is up and running! They're letting people in! You have your safe zone!"

"Good! Keep me posted on developments on-site!" Isabella smiled.

It was nice to see Foreign Affairs working quickly for a change.

Outside the window, another grey, windowless, remotely-piloted helicopter touched down on the tarmac, a terrified family of six (and one brave Marine volunteer) hugging its skids. The civilians were hurriedly unstrapped from their makeshift harnesses, relieved of their earmuffs, and hustled as far away from the helicopter as possible as it rose back into the sky, ready to pick up its next load.

A name disappeared from the list on-screen. Isabella silently thanked the Turing Thinkomatics Corporation for database software. Handling this on paper would have been even more of a nightmare.

The interpreter barked out names, and Isabella shuffled them to the top of the list. Isabella cross-checked the addresses on her map, looked at her notes, and began barking orders into her microphone.

* * *

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Shego walked through the warehouse-turned-refugee-shelter, sweating profusely in the sweltering heat. The solar-panel- roof did wonders for providing power (no matter how unreliable) in infrastructure-deficient Rwanda, where nearly all fuel had to be imported along dirt roads or crummy railways (very recent improvements notwithstanding). However, the horribly inefficient, dirt-cheap, dark-blue silicon cells wasted most of the sunlight as heat – heat that heated up the thin roof and was radiated into the warehouse.

Phineas and Ferb walked quickly, keeping pace with the raven-haired operative as they passed by yet another loose circle of people.

"The reverse osmosis units are keeping up with demand, so we have fresh water a-plenty. We have more electricity than we know what to do with. Unfortunately, we don't have any spare air-conditioning units handy, and they have to poop in the lake until we can figure something out."

Shego frowned. "Don't we have air-conditioning in the half-built factories over there?"

"We checked. The air-con hasn't been installed yet."

"How are we doing food-wise?"

Phineas grinned.

"We have plenty of natural gas from the lake, atmospheric carbon dioxide, and ample spare parts. As long as the SCP plant stays online, we'll have food until we run out of minerals for the microbes in a month. But Sally Chan – the Butterfly rep - said that the refugees shouldn't subsist solely on the stuff for more than a few weeks or so. It's a little high in sodium."

Shego raised an eyebrow. "Don't spacers eat that stuff all day?"

Phineas shook his head. "Those microbial strains are optimized for high carbohydrate content – tough to find in bacteria, actually. The strains in the vats here – and the downstream processers - are optimized for high protein and comprehensive micronutrient content, as well as for taste and texture. I guess Butterfly was betting that the meat-starved people here would pay more for ersatz meat paste than for ersatz banana or sweet potatoes."

Shego chuckled. "Wait a minute. They were making _spam_?"

"It's not pork, so it's not spam. The plant makes substitute meat powder. Just add water, boil, and serve the tasty amorphous brown paste on sweet potatoes. Don't laugh, Ms. Shego. People here only get to eat meat once or twice a month. If Sally's to be believed, the stuff's been selling pretty well."

Shego stopped. "That's not what I was laughing at. Most spam hasn't been pork since they legalized single-cell-protein for human consumption."

Ferb rolled his eyes, and glared at Shego. "Right. Any security problems?"

Phineas shook his head. "Not yet. We're a long way from capacity. But as we reach it, we can expect a lot more fights over space and goods."

"What's capacity?"

"We're still trying to figure that out. The SCP plant's pretty overbuilt, so that might not be the limiting factor."

A high-pitched whine filled the air, and Shego forced Phineas and Ferb to the ground. A crack went off outside the warehouse, and people started screaming.

Phineas's eyes darted around the panic-stricken warehouse. "What the heck was that?!"

Shego put on her helmet and started running. "Mortar fire! Head for a slit trench!"

"What slit trench?!"

Shego pointed to a drainage ditch outside the warehouse – which, unfortunately, was being used as an ad-hoc communal latrine. Ferb stared at the three inches of (mostly liquid) human waste, and blinked twice. Baljeet rubbed his chin.

"That looks very unsanitary."

Another mortar round exploded over the tarmac, and Rwandans up to fifty meters away went down bleeding as shrapnel tore at unprotected skulls.

Phineas jumped into the latrine, and dozens of others followed suit. Shego ran for the gates as the sounds of gunfire erupted in the distance. As the disgusting muck began seeping into his sneakers, Phineas cursed the decision not to use the warehouse immediately adjacent to the unpaved construction site, where recently-dug ditches lay in profusion.

He would never see bare earth in quite the same way again.

* * *

 **UNAMIR Compound**

 **Amahoro Stadium, Kigali, Rwanda**

Sergeant Zheng walked into the tent. "Uhh… Major? You wanted to be kept informed of developments at Lake Kivu IZ?"

Isabella nodded as she continued barking orders at a team trying to extract a Rwandan parliamentarian from his besieged house.

"Lake Kigali IZ is under attack by Rwandan militia, ma'am. They're taking mortar fire. They also report the presence of French mercenaries."

Isabella gritted her teeth, and momentarily put down her satphone. "Get an armed drone over there stat, and fire on hostile mortar positions. Reassemble the quick-response force. We cannot lose that landing zone!"

Zheng chuckled. "You mean safe zone, right?"

"What else could I have been saying?"

Zheng raised her hand. "Uhh… is this legal under our mandate?"

"Our vaguely-written mandate allows us to use force to 'prevent crimes against humanity', and 'protect lives'. We have refugees in the IZ. The lawyers can argue about our intent later. Go, go, go!"

* * *

 _*This fictional Rwandan militia is much more lavishly equipped than the real one was, courtesy of larger misused development loans. The real one had substantially more members than guns – to the extent that only one man per platoon was issued a Kalashnikov. Hence the machetes._


	6. Chapter 6

**April 7** **th** **1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Shego rushed up the stairs, charged into the dormitory, and popped her head from the corner of an open window. Tire marks scoured the dirt outside the chain-link fence, and sporadic gunfire could be heard coming from the treeline beyond. As expected for a battlefield, there was nary a combatant to be seen. Shego grabbed her radio.

"Main gate! How's your position?"

"Two down, five standing! We managed to repel their first push with the machine-gun, but they're regrouping for round two! They're getting better at lobbing mortars at us!"

"I'm up high! Do you have targets?"

"There're a couple of guys behind that tall tree fifty meters in front of us."

Shego took aim, cracked off a few bursts at the tree, and ducked back behind the window. When no return fire found her, she repeated the maneuver.

A trio of militiamen ran from the woods, wire cutters in hand. Shego fired at them. One militaman fell to the ground, and the other two quickly retreated, pulling their casualty with them.

"They're trying to infiltrate from the north side! Put fire on them!"

At that moment, a white pickup truck charged towards the chain-link fence at full speed. Shego emptied her clip ineffectually at the advancing truck, and braced for the inevitable perimeter breach.

Much to her surprise, the truck slammed to a halt as the chain-link fence bowed inward like a tennis net, hurling six unfortunate militiamen out of the vehicle.

Two were hurled over the fence entirely, and hit the concrete apron hard. Shego fired two bursts into each of them before smothering the crashed truck with fire.

* * *

Phineas chuckled from the relative safety of his stinky shelter as the truck raced towards the chain-link fence, and broke into laughter as the truck slammed to a halt.

"Whoever heard of a pickup truck beating high-tensile-strength steel mesh attached to thirty buried poles, huh Ferb?"

Ferb blinked twice, and pointed to the bloody messes on the concrete.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

The whirr of helicopter blades momentarily filled the air, and the crack of a rocket sent everybody scurrying for cover. Phineas strained to track the formless grey helicopter as it zipped across the sky.

* * *

"Major! Skewer one-two reports enemy mortars suppressed! We'll put you down in the compound!"

The CV-22 Osprey tiltrotors touched down on the concrete apron, and blue-helmeted marines spilled out. Isabella marched forward to the concrete-lined shores of beautiful Lake Kivu. The sun hovered just above the tree-lined hills of the lake's opposite shore, and its waters shimmered with golden dapples of light.

War zones could be such beautiful places.

Isabella took a deep breath, and closed her eyes as her mind wandered once more to that captured asteroid in High Earth Orbit. In her mind's eye, she was once again standing in the darkness beneath an infinite, unblinking starfield, the band of the Milky Way at its center, atop a frozen chunk of tar and rock older than the Earth itself… and all her Marines were dead.

"Hey! Major! Tell your people to let our casualties on board!"

Isabella frowned, took off her sunglasses, and spun around. "The UN compound in Kigali's already swamped with casualties. Our medic will perform triage, and we'll only fly the most pressing… what the heck?" She saw the speaker, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

The raven-haired woman in the t-shirt and kevlar vest looked almost as shocked as she was.

"Lieutenant? What on earth are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same question. And uhh… it's Major now. So, uhh…"

"The name's still Shego, if you're asking. Your name was…" Shego racked her head as she tried to remember the marine's name, which she had last heard uttered at a long, drawn-out debriefing session a decade ago.

"Major Isabella Garcia-Shapiro, at your service. I'm part of the UN peacekeeping force here." She whispered angrily into the ear of the former intelligence agent. "Am I cleaning up after one of your messes again?"

Shego backed away, and raised her voice. "Woah woah woah! First off, last time wasn't our mess! We decorated a room, and then the Soviets made a mess trying to steal the furniture!" She sighed. "Second of all, my hazard pay'd be a lot higher if I was causing this mess. I'm here on a close protection op."

"So no mad scientists and nukes this time?"

Shego gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah, about that…"

"He's here too? What the heck is wrong with this universe?!"

"Well, this time we don't have nukes. But according to Drew, if we dropped a big enough nuke into the water, the lake over there would probably kill two million people."

Isabella's facepalm was interrupted by a triangle-headed engineer.

"Major? I'm Phineas Flynn, project manager of the natural gas extraction rigs here. I'd like to thank you for your quick intervention at our site."

An Indian-Pacifican engineer rolled his eyes. "It would have been better had you arrived before the engagement swung in our favor."

Isabella squinted as she examined the engineer's nametag. "Well, Mr. Tjinder, without our helicopter support, it is likely that enemy mortars would have continued to shell your precious project." She turned to the triangle-headed engineer. "Mr. Flynn. Do you have any reinforced concrete structures? My girls and I are planning to settle in for a few days."

Shego tapped Isabella's shoulder. "Oi. I'm on the ad-hoc Security Committee. He's not. And the answer is no. The best I can get you is a half-dry drainage ditch covered with a concrete slab."

Phineas nodded. "We have bulldozers. We could reinforce it with dirt, and plug in a fluorescent bulb or two."

Isabella pulled out a notebook. "We could also use a few spare vehicles, megaphones, and…"

Phineas waved his hands. "Let's take this inside. This place crawls with mosquitoes at sundown."

* * *

 **UN Headquarters**

 **New York City, New York Province, NAAA**

 **Joint Government**

Departmental Administrator Wu Jing, of the Bureau of Foreign Affairs, followed the small party of Rwandans into the small conference room, and shut the door.

"Take a seat, gentlemen. We have much to discuss. This room has been swept for bugs, so we may speak freely."

The unofficial representative from the Rwandan Armed Forces (FAR), an army officer and Hutu 'moderate', spoke first. "I certainly hope so. If the genocidaires found out about this meeting, they'd be calling our names out on the radio by tonight."

The Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) representative slammed the desk. "Cut the chit-chat. We will approve a UN intervention if it does not contain French forces. They would back the genocidaires."

The unofficial FAR representative frowned. "We need some assurance that the RPF will recommit to the peace process instead of taking over completely. French forces will provide that assurance."

Wu Jian shook his head. "You have the assurance of my government that we will commit to the peace accords, and will cease operations in the event that the RPF reneges on the terms of the agreement." He turned to the RPF rep. "However, we believe that the inclusion of French forces – under the oversight of Joint Government Marines - would be optimal."

He did not add that the French had insisted on the arrangement and threatened to veto the whole scheme if their demands were not met, or that elements in the French government were capitalizing on the confusion to cause as much harm to Joint Government commercial interests as possible.

The answer satisfied no one.

"You would not aid us in fighting the RPF? How is this fair?"

"Would your marines be willing to shoot at the French if they started evacuating genocidaires?"

Wu Jing rubbed his temples. "Our marines would arrive before the French, allowing UNAMIR – under our leadership - to rapidly secure Kigali and the northwest with our combined forces. This should allow us to control the areas where most of the killings are occurring as of now. If we are lucky, the fence-sitters in the east will join us, the escalating violence in the south will cease, and UNAMIR will, in conjunction with your forces, have achieved control over the country. We will even be willing to ferry RPF personnel to the south of the country to aid management of the situation there – under the strict supervision of the FAR and Marines, of course. If the RPF reneges on the accords, we"

The RPF representative remained unconvinced. "How will you ensure that your marines will arrive before the French?"

"They will be dropping from orbit. It will take longer than twelve hours to negotiate overflight arrangements with your neighbors, and then fly in French paratroopers and Marine reinforcements to join UNAMIR. It is this or nothing."

The RPF representative frowned. "We will agree to this for now. Now, regarding the exact composition of the force: We propose a force of a thousand men, three hundred from UNAMIR, three hundred from us, and three hundred from FAR."

Wu Jing frowned. "Two thousand men – a thousand Marines and a thousand French - in addition to UNAMIR forces already in-country. Up to three thousand, if additional nations pledge forces. Four thousand FAR. No more than a thousand RPF."

The RPF representative fumed. "You do not need a thousand men – with tanks, helicopters, and death rays from space – to destroy the genocidaires!"

"We will not permit our forces to fight from a position of overwhelming numerical inferiority, and we are here to uphold the Arusha Accords and restore stability, not destroy the genocidaires." _We need the men to stop you from taking over the country,_ Wu Jing thought. "Furthermore, we intend to deploy the bulk of the newly-arrived forces in the west and south of the country, so as to facilitate our control of those regions and prevent escaping genocidaires from reestablishing themselves there. Existing UNAMIR forces, reinforced by mechanized forces, shall suffice for Kigali."

The unofficial FAR representative apparently got the message, and nodded. "This plan is acceptable to us."

The RPF representative mulled his decision. By themselves, the RPF might win in an all-out offensive against the Hutu… but they might not, and it would jeopardize the lives of hundreds of thousands of Tutsi and millions of dollars in existing foreign direct investment…

…and this was why his superiors had decided on a flexible negotiating stance.

"This plan is acceptable to us as well."

Wu Jing chuckled inwardly. He had expected this to drag on much longer than it actually had, which, considering the pace of events in Rwanda, made sense for everyone in the room.

The FAR representative exhaled. "It all boils down to the Security Council meeting tonight, then, doesn't it?"

Wu Jing smiled. "Yep. No UN banner, no intervention."

* * *

 _Author's note, real world: While initially supportive of a limited intervention, the RPF would later (late April) oppose UN intervention in Rwanda because any such intervention would steal a complete victory against the Hutu from under their noses. At this point in time, the RPF has yet to achieve success in its initial offenses, fence-sitting FAR officers have yet to decide to support the genocidaires, many moderates are still alive, and the killing is still 'limited' (ten thousand instead of half a million). Things are a lot easier at this stage._

 _The story of Isabella Garcia-Shapiro's previous encounter with Kim Possible and Shego (under very stressful circumstances in the cold, dark, vacuum of space) is told in the Kim Possible fanfiction The First Space War._


	7. Chapter 7

**April 7** **th** **1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone**

"So, you _don't_ have a gas-to-liquids plant here."

Phineas shook his head. "The team for that project isn't scheduled to come in for another quarter. They're running behind schedule. We have around twenty thousand gallons of kerosene for tilt-turbofans and helicopters, and another few thousand gallons for company cars."

Isabella sighed with relief. "That'll extend chopper operations for a week."

Phineas frowned. "Major Garcia-Shapiro, CARBOX fuel cells are pretty finicky when it comes to…"

Isabella held up her hand. "Mr. Flynn, the Bureau of Defense gets overcharged for everything because it specs for situations like this. Where are the tanks?"

Shego snorted. "You should get a squad on them real quick, and hope they don't get hit by a mortar or holed by a bullet."

"Not secure, then." Isabella got on her radio.

Drew whispered to Shego. "I think we might be able to make biodiesel with all the stuff we have." Shego rolled her eyes as Drew began describing his latest scheme. "No, I'm serious. You see, all manner of oils and fats can be found in the outputs of the Butterfly Corporation's bacterial fermenters. Using the processing equipment they have on hand to adjust the composition of their finished product, it just might be possible to extract the fats from the bacterial gunk."

Shego groaned. "You can't burn bacterial gunk, Dr. D."

"Aha! But you can burn biodiesel! By reconfiguring the supercritical water oxidizers found in the micro-sewage plant of this very installation, it may be possible to convert the bacterial fats into biodiesel. The possibilities are endless! Imagine the cost savings! The logistical simplification! This scheme is off-the-heazy!"

Shego snapped. "Okay. Dr. D. First off, you're not an industrial chemist or process engineer. You're a military weapons engineer with a physics background. You're pulling this out of your butt. Second of all, IF the military ever gets here, they will get here with a plan for fuel. The military WILL NOT entrust the lives of thousands of servicemen and millions of dollars on your crazy scheme. Finally, and most importantly, we DO NOT HAVE THE TIME to design, build, and test a new industrial plant. Get this into that big head of yours: THIS IS NOT GOING TO WORK!"

Shego caught her breath, and met the stares of the rest of the room.

Drew blinked twice, and backed towards the door. "Oh. Well then, a lot of preliminary work is in order. I'll just go and find Sally Chan from Butterfly. She'll probably have a better idea about the feasibility of my… uhhh…"

Baljeet raised his finger. "I believe she is inspecting the synthetic protein plant."

Drew opened the door, and left the room.

Everyone turned back to Isabella. "Okay. I've moved around a detail to watch the fuel tanks, and informed my superiors about the fuel situation. A verbal tour will have to do for now. Let's move on to the broader security landscape."

Shego, eager to shift the conversation forward, walked to the front of the room. "From what we can tell, this investment zone was attacked by a paramilitary organization affiliated with, but not necessarily controlled by, the current governing party of Rwanda, the MRND. The paramilitaries appear to be operating with advice and assistance from French mercenaries. From our interactions with them earlier today, the French mercs appear to wield substantial authority, well, as much as you can expect from bunch of angry young men with guns. We don't know whether the mercs are actually exerting control."

Isabella pinched her chin. "You said you interacted with them earlier today?"

Buford Van Stomm spoke up. "Captain Frenchie and his goons came over this afternoon, and tried to barge into the complex. Said they wanted to search the place for fugitives. Shego here basically told 'em to keep the heck out."

Isabella nodded. "So you think they're after the refugees here?"

Buford shrugged. "Unless there's someone specific they're looking for, attacking a lightly-fortified compound just for a few racial enemies seems like a bad idea in a race war. Especially when the countryside is still crawling with unprotected targets."

Phineas ignored the tone-deaf remark. "According to the refugees we spoke to, that particular militia hasn't really been all that active in promoting the… unpleasantness. No random house searches, no speeches in villages. They've mostly been doing targeted sweeps. The locals mostly attribute this to the French mercs."

Shego nodded. "They tried to breach a fence while under fire. Not too smart – I'd have gone with a less direct approach – but it's definitely good discipline in my book."

Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Equipment?"

Buford whistled. "Top-of-the-line for this part of the world. Light mortars, pickup trucks, uniforms, and QBZ-84s – they even had the modular squad automatic! I seriously did not expect the French mercs to let their boys use Pacifican guns."

Given that Norinco was marketing the bullpup QBZ-84 as the Kalashnikov of the future, and dumping product onto the market to secure market share, this was not entirely unexpected.

Isabella nodded again. "Okay, so this militia has enough pull to siphon off guns we sold to the Rwandan Army. Do you think they'll have the guts to try again?"

Shego pulled a face. "Probably not, especially now that the marines are here. Like Van Stomm said, this is a ridiculous amount of effort just to kill a few racial enemies. And while the industrial equipment is valuable, do you seriously see them looting air-conditioners, solar panels or water purifiers?"

Isabella shook her head. "Have you considered that there might be someone specific they're hunting here?"

Phineas frowned. "Pretty much everyone we took in was an employee, one of their acquaintances, or one of their relatives."

Baljeet sighed. "It might have been our Rwandan business partners."

Shego tapped their chin. "You know, if I was working for the French government, and I wanted to kick us out of Rwanda, and had a militia under my thumb… this is exactly the kind of annoying crap I'd pull on an industrial park. Scare the crap out of the investors." Shego smiled a little as she went back to her years spent training anti-communist terrorists in Venezuela and Afghanistan.

Phineas scoffed. "That's conspiracy talk. The French are our allies! They're in CDO and everything! You're accusing them of… state-sponsored-terrorism!"

Isabella shrugged. "Whatever their objective, I think UNAMIR's presence here has probably pushed the cost of any operation way into the red."

* * *

 **April 7** **th** **1994**

 **UN Headquarters**

 **New York City, New York Province, NAAA**

 **Joint Government**

The suited Frenchman departed the huddle of chattering bureaucrats, and discreetly walked into a side room. Grabbing his satphone, he punched in a number, sent a text message, and just as quickly deleted it.

He frowned as he admired the Eurocomm logo on his satphone. Europe was no longer reliant on the big Low Orbital communications platforms of Iridium, Cellsat, China Mobile, and all the other Joint Government satphone corporations. But they still dominated the market, thanks to their unassailable economies of scale, internal market of three-billion-people, and early market entry.

The Hans were already dominating space. Regardless of what his superiors said, or the political ideology of the day, they would not be allowed to dominate Africa as well.

He checked his watch, and mentally adjusted the time for Rwanda. The Security Council was shaping up to approve intervention… early tomorrow morning, Rwanda time, and it was... night in Rwanda. He winced. Night combat was a JOINTGOV specialty, and the demanding task generally required well-trained troops. Francois and his boys would just have to roll with it.

* * *

 **April 8** **th** **1994**

 **Camp Parabola, Parabola Station**

 **Inclined Medium Earth Orbit**

In a world where transport aircraft can cross the globe in less than a day to deliver over a hundred tonnes of supplies, orbital deployment of troops is expensive overkill.

Nonetheless, the Joint Government Marines were determined to expand their hold on the "space infantry operations" mission as far as possible, and as such had strongly backed the concept. Combined with enthusiastic support from the space commerce lobby, which saw in the concept endless contracts for legions of lunar farmers, fleets of ion tugs, and hordes of maintenance men, this had been sufficient to ensure the implementation of the cockamamie scheme.

The result, delivered one year behind schedule and many millions of dollars over budget, was Camp Parabola. Consisting of a spinning habitat wheel attached to a non-spun microgravity section, Camp Parabola resembled a large spoked tire with a metal bush sprouting from its axis. Protruding from the metal bush were a dozen or so shield-shaped fruits – the reentry vehicles, each fifty meters in diameter, for the station's embarked Marine Expeditionary Unit.

While lasers, Space Force spacecraft, and tens of thousands of tonnes of imported dirt from the Moon and captured asteroids provided the installation with some measure of protection, the thousands of men and women and billions of dollars in materiel on Camp Parabola were more-or-less soft, juicy targets – and targets in plain view of half the planet to boot.

Sergeant Jonathan Davis tried to avoid contemplating the fact as he floated into the central hub of Lander Five. Eight huge cargo modules, each with personnel pods at their termini, radiated from the empty hub. He floated past a diminutive light attack helicopter and a pair of military dune buggies, stopping in front of a light tank. He waved to the man in the turret.

"How's it going?"

"Blasted CARBOX's busted! According to the diagnostics, there's a fault in between the fuel cell itself and the external power cable! That, or the chip's dead! Either way, if we don't replace the CARBOX, this tank ain't going more than a kilometer on battery power."

Sergeant Davis sighed. And they said that all-electric tanks with no transmissions would be the end of maintenance nightmares…

"Have you filed a replacement request?"

"Yeah! But the robotic arm in Dock Three got busted by a tug, so we're going to have to wait for that to get fixed."

Davis swore. "To heck with that! We could be shipping out tomorrow! I'll put together an EVA team, and we'll drag that thing in the old-fashioned way!" Davis inspected the ammunition trolley next to the vehicle. "Have you finished switching out the ammo?"

"Yep! Sabots out, HE, flechette and canister in! Do we want the gun-launched missiles?"

Davis nodded. "We have orders to keep 'em! Army said they rocked in Somalia!"

There was no point packing armor-defeating munitions where they were going.

* * *

 **April 8** **th** **1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone**

Isabella finished her preservative-laden sandwich, threw the foil packaging into a bin, and turned her attention back to the drawn-out meeting.

"Okay, so the dirt road to the village north of here is absolutely awful."

Buford nodded. "Got stuck there for half a day. If you're thinking of running trucks through it, don't."

"Okay. Will avoid that. What about the village itself?"

"Houses clustered around the main road. Lots of loopholes to get shot at from. Unless you're bringing in more men, I would not recommend running presence patrols through there."

"Okay. Now, can the bridge over the river take 30-tonne trucks?"

The fire alarm began ringing. A blue-helmeted corporal burst through the door, her green eyes wide with alarm.

"Ma'am! We've got boats on the lake! We're under attack!"


	8. Chapter 8

**April 8** **th** **1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Major Isabella Garcia-Shapiro strapped her helmet on as she dashed out of the conference room into the sweltering tropical night, the fire alarm in her ears. The lights of the nascent industrial park were dim (with the exception of the landward perimeter fence), and she could make out hundreds of stars in the sky above. A horizontal line of bright stars – the Powersat Consortium's geostationary constellation of Solar Power Satellites – caught her eye, and tried not to think about crashing into a cold, tarry asteroid in a fragile hardsuit, praying that the visor would hold…

"Get off your butts, Fireside Girls! Enemy amphibious assault! We've just been out-Marined!"

A red flare shot skywards, ruining the skyscape for Isabella and informing everyone else that an assault was at hand. The dark waters of the lake shimmered, and Isabella caught a glimpse of a few wooden fishing boats, each loaded with a squad of militia.

This was a gutsy move for a militia that had received little or no training in night-fighting.

Isabella raised her pistol, and emptied a clip into the lake. People who are ducking cannot row.

The floodlights on the building exterior came to life, and fire raked the containerized main buildings. Isabella grabbed her radio. "Someone turn the darned lights off! You're giving those bastards a clear look at us!"

Isabella spotted Sergeant Zheng, and ran down the exterior staircase just as the lights cut out.

"Sergeant! I need goggles and a rifle!"

Isabella felt Zheng thrust something into her hands. "Spare pair right here! Rifles against the wall!" Isabella hurriedly put them on. In the distance, an empty boat mockingly announced the success of the enemy. Isabella picked up a rifle, and crouched down next to Zheng.

"What are we looking at, Sarge?"

"At least a squad on this side of the building. A couple of 'em ducked behind the building before I started shooting. Other units landed up and down the shore."

Isabella's jaw dropped. "Who's watching our back?"

"Second squad."

"Oh, boy." She grabbed the radio. "Lieutenant, report!"

A chip, young voice replied. "Command post, airfield, and tankage secure, ma'am. We had fire superiority and good lines of sight. Hostiles have taken the synthetic protein plant and power plant, but we don't have the manpower to advance to target. We've launched a drone, and made contact made with close air support. They'll be here in thirty."

Isabella nodded. "Lieutenant, be advised, enemy may be targeting domiciles and refugees. Your girls may be badly out of position." The Lieutenant cursed, and began barking orders into the channel.

Isabella ducked to the ground as mortar shells began exploding in the night sky above, and her radio came to life again. "Ma'am, you were right. Drone's spotted hostiles deploying for the domiciles and warehouse. Squads are on the move."

* * *

Shego, rifle raised, gingerly made her way around the balcony corridor that graced the side of the building. She hesitated before every soft step, mindful of the steel decking beneath her feet. Shego approached the pitch-black corridor that marked the entrance to the breezeway. Clangs reverberated through the steel decking, and she tensed. One… no, two people, wearing boots. Marines? Company security? Or paramilitaries?

Shego lunged in between the two noise contacts, kicked one against the wall, and karate-chopped the other to the ground. The feeling of Kevlar straps beneath her gloves and the tone of the startled yelps immediately caused Shego to swear loudly, profanely, and identifiably.

"Darnit! Sorry, guys."

Inaccurate fire raked the building, and the annoyed trio ducked into the corridor. Shego cursed again. "Guys, is the dorm clear?"

An unfamiliar voice responded. "Not sure. We've got two guys on the north staircase. This would be a lot easier if the Marines hadn't cut the flappin' lights!"

Another voice – female this time – hissed. "Darned Marines! They might have night vision gear, but we don't, darnit! We're headed for the security office to see whether CMS stashed any."

Shego nodded. "I've got four pairs of NVGs in my room. Headed there right now. If you gave me a hand, I'd be happy to share."

"What the heck are we waiting for?"

A nearby clang of boots on metal interrupted the conversation. "Crap." Another cluster of clangs, higher this time. Shego closed her eyes, and mentally reviewed the layout of the skybridge.

There was a climbing frame… no, a drying rack of some sort… right on top of an air-conditioning unit, right next to the…

Shego heard annoyed conversation in Kinyarwanda, and grunts of exertion. A figure eclipsed an EXIT/出口 sign in the distance.

Shego pointed her rifle down the breezeway, and opened fire. Her companions followed her lead with shots aimed at the concrete apron below. Return fire clanged against the metal breezeway, and the sound of running could be heard in the night.

* * *

The trio stopped at the intersection between the darkened hallways, illuminated only with the dim glow of EXIT/出口 signs.

Soft clangs reverberated down the hallway. Shego waited for the sound to pass the intersection, and pounced, wrapping her arm around his neck and dragging him out of the hallway. The person's build, dress, and wooden-framed Kalashnikov told Shego everything she needed to know, and she tightened her grip even as the man struggled to escape.

The two security contractors, concerned, immediately swept into the corridor. Bangs, clangs, and gunshots rang out in the hallway.

The man finally stopped moving. Shego let his body slide to the floor, and joined her colleagues, who, illuminated by the light of a torch, were presiding over a dead hostile and a frightened Pacifican.

"What the heck?"

"Bad guy was looting the dorm. Didn't catch our colleague hiding under the bed – smart move hiding behind that wooden board, by the way – but our friend here came out when we came in."

Shego barked at the terrified man. "Get back into your hiding place." She waved for the duo, and led them to her room.

Shego dug through her drawer, grinned savagely, and produced four pairs of night vision goggles.

"And… we're back in business."

* * *

 **UN Headquarters**

 **New York, New York Province, NAAA**

 **Joint Government**

Wu Jian smiled as he walked into the small, unremarkable conference room. Since official Security Council meetings were carried out in front of the cameras of the international media, all the _real_ work – complete with realpolitik - was conducted during informal consultations with no official records. He gave Zhang Lihua, the Joint Government's go-to Security Council gal, a polite nod.

Wu Jian looked around the room. He had met with virtually every representative over the past half-day, presented the facts, made his recommendations, and tested the waters. He had also ensured that the official Rwandan representative would not be present.

Zhang began the meeting. "As you are all aware from the efforts of our staff, a campaign of terror directed towards the RPF, UNAMIR, and Tutsi is underway in the Republic of Rwanda, severely threatening to overturn the Arusha Accords we have tried so hard to preserve."

She turned on the bulky television, and a series of videos – drone and rover footage of corpses at checkpoints, house-to-house raids, frantic Rwandans, gunfire, and a particularly jarring video of Rwandan paratroopers mutilating the bodies of blue-helmeted marines.

"You should also have been briefed on a multinational intervention plan, in which Joint Government, French, and other forces will deploy to Rwanda to restore order with the aid of the RPF and Rwandan government forces so that the Accords may proceed again."

The Argentinean representative spoke. "As a nation that has suffered at the hands of your space weapons, we do not agree with the inclusion of space-based weapons and military forces in your proposed intervention. Remove them from the proposal."

Zhang sighed. "The sheer expense of space-based forces means we don't use them lightly. Space-based forces are necessary for the safety of the intervention force, and are necessary to enable rapid intervention. As you can see from the reports coming in, things are spiraling out of control fast. We need boots on the ground by tomorrow, and we won't have overflight clearance by then."

The French representative raised his hand. "France and the European Community stand with Argentina in its firm opposition to the Joint Government's militarization of the heavens in general, and your orbiting ring of death in particular, an opposition shared by many of the world's nations. Using your space forces to enforce a UN mandate does not demonstrate the collective will of the world's nations. They have no place in this intervention, and must be removed in their entirety."

Crap. The French were going back on their approval.

The Omani rep chimed in. "We would not wish to condone your brutal orbital bombardment of Mogadishu last year."

Behind an impassive poker face, Wu Jian gritted his teeth.

The Russian representative smirked. "Well, it is settled. Only terrestrial and air forces will be employed in the necessary intervention in these tragic events, and it may proceed smoothly."

The Joint Government needed Russian oil as much as Russia needed Joint Government Dollars, and he knew it. Or did he?

The Nigerian representative begged to differ. "The humanitarian situation in Rwanda is grave. Use of space-based weapons will greatly ease the suffering of the Rwandan people."

Zhang nodded. "Furthermore, we have domestic pressures to contend with. Our people will not allow our marines to go in without adequate equipment and combat support, and casualties – which orbital forces will greatly reduce – will erode support for the intervention. We… cannot proceed without orbital support."

The French representative pretended to frown. "Well, we'll just have to go in without you. You would not jeopardize the lives of thousands of Rwandans by opposing the resolution, I presume?"

The Nigerian representative scowled. "The RPF would never accept a purely French intervention. And we all know that the French are partial towards the Hutu. A multinational force is the only way to go."

The French representative nodded. "The Senegalese have agreed to provide personnel to assist us."

Senegal was a Francophone nation, firmly part of the French sphere of influence.

The Pakistani representative spoke. "The arguments put forth by JOINTGOV might have… some merit. I suggest we take a break and reconvene afterwards to continue our discussion."

Wu Jian got the subtext. Time to break out the sweeteners.

* * *

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Shego keyed her radio. "This is Shego. We're ready to pounce."

Shego looked out across the lake from her perch on the open-frame staircase. The night-vision goggles painted the world in ghostly shades of white, grey and green, making the tropical landscape look downright alien.

Nah. She'd seen the Civ Geo documentaries on Saturn's moon, Titan (shot-on-location). It looked nothing like this. For starters, it was orange. Secondly, the wooden boat would not have survived the liquid methane lakes. And thirdly…

Those militiamen trying to hide behind the air-conditioners weren't wearing spacesuits. Shego opened fire, and two went down before the others scattered. A few, uncertain as to the position of the incoming fire, scattered into her line of sight, and Shego gunned them down as well.

More gunshots rang out on the floor above her as her colleagues cleared the top floor.

Suddenly, the courtyard below erupted into a cacophony of staccato gunfire. A few Marines, night-vision goggles clipped onto powder-blue helmets, moved into the courtyard as the last bodies hit the ground.

Her work mostly done, Shego left the scene and headed for Drew's room, ready to comfort the easily spooked engineer.

The room was empty. Shego's eyes went wide, and her jaw clenched as she ripped her satphone from her cargo pants and turned it back on.

There was one voice message. Shego gulped, and played it.

"Uhhh… Shego? Well, I uhhh… lost track of time while inspecting the single-cell protein plant and uhhh… well, was quite spooked when all those armed men came barging in. Anyway… uhhh… I'm hiding on top of the primary purification column… and… do you think you could come get me? I think they suspect I'm here." Shego heard yelling and dragging. "Uhhh! Please don't hurt me! I'm unarmed, and I'm just a scientist! I'm just a scientist!"

The noise in the background faded to nearly nothing, and the message ended automatically.

* * *

"Mr. Flynn, Mr. Fletcher, what are you doing out here?" Isabella deftly ran across the courtyard, a tiny television set in her hands.

Phineas and Ferb, unused to wearing helmets, panted as they took cover behind a large air-conditioner. "We want to help! We know this place better than you do!"

"That's Buford's job!"

"He's up front guiding your soldiers! We're back here to guide you!"

Shego stode up to Isabella. "Major! We need to retake the protein plant!"

Isabella shook her head. "Nope. Hostiles are pushing hard on the warehouse. We don't strictly need the fuel cell powerplant, or the protein plant. We'll clear 'em out later."

"What if they sabotage the plants?"

Isabella barked into her microphone. "Drone gal! Visual on the slit trench! Thank you!" She turned back to the raven-haired operative. "Air Force can airdrop supplies, and solar panels'll cover the rest. Now move!"

Shego's stance remained defiant, but her voice cracked. "Dr. Lipsky's in there."

Isabella sighed, and nodded. "Drone gal! Visual on the Butterfly plant!" A few seconds later, a grainy image of the plant appeared on Isabella's cathode-ray tube television. Shego's eyes were immediately drawn to the three largish motorized rowboats floating alongside a metal dock, where submerged natural gas pipelines fed into the plant. Great. Including the three men she could see on the dock, there could be up to twenty militia in there.

"Sorry, Shego. We just don't have the men."

Shego nodded, and began walking briskly towards the lake.

Phineas yelled after her. "Where are you going?"

Shego yelled back. "If you see a boat headed away from the protein plant, call me before you blow it apart! I might be on the thing!"

Isabella nodded, and continued through the compound, barking orders into her microphone as she went.


	9. Chapter 9

**April 7th 1994**

 **UN Headquarters, New York Province**

Wu Jian and a pair of Bureau of Foreign Affairs (BFA) bureaucrats accosted the Russian delegate in the hall. Much to the delegate's surprise, Wu Jian abandoned any pretense of informality.

"What do you want, Mr. Sidrov?"

"Restoration of our sphere of influence in Central Asia, for one. But you'd never agree to that anyway, so let's talk about something more realistic."

He paused. "We want an end to your collective bargaining on oil and gas."

Wu Jian rubbed his chin as he pretended to ponder his decision. Since the days of the Soviet Union, the Joint Government had negotiated trade deals with Russia via state-backed industry panels, allowing Pacific, Inc. to get better deals on Soviet exports while regulating technology transfers to its ideological foe.

"No go." A BFA bureaucrat pulled out a file, and Wu Jian opened it to Mr. Sidrov. "We have recently… noticed that you have begun sponsoring a little proxy war against some of your separatists in Chechnya. We sympathize greatly with your plight to hold your country together, and will respect your sovereignty, but you know how leaky our intelligence apparatus is. If someone gets careless, even the niggling little details might get leaked."

Mr. Sidrov tried his best to look appalled. "This is an outrage!"

Wu Gin extracted a file from the second BFA bureaucrat. "Now, about this year's oil negotiations. With the completion of the upgrades to Iran's main oil terminal in Chabahar, Iranian oil is getting very competitive. We have obligations to the Iranian moderates to make sure their state makes a bundle right after opening up. It will be very difficult for our corporations to purchase as much oil from you as last year, and with oil prices as low as they are, you will need to sell more than ever…"

* * *

Wu Jian pulled the Pakistani delegate into a side room.

"We are willing to… improve the conditions for the upcoming review of your loan from the AIIB. And we're willing to reconsider the terms of the nuclear technology transfer program."

The Pakistani delegate was not amused. "You just want to sell us nuclear reactors."

"How do SinoNuke molten salt thorium reactors sound to you? Better for your industrial base than the plug-and-play pebble beds you have now…"

"We want uranium fast-breeders."

Wu Jian shook his head. Fast breeder reactors were plutonium machines, producing energy and copious amounts of plutonium (usable in nuclear weapons) from abundant uranium-238.

Wu Jian pulled out a binder from his briefcase. "Space access technology transfer. We're willing to build a spaceport for you…"

"…and you expect us to buy more space solar power, which you can cut off at any time. No. The ten gigawatts we have now are enough of a noose around our neck. And we have no need for a spaceport at this present time."

Wu Jian nodded. "Lower interest rates and molten salt thorium breeders. We don't care what you can do with the online reprocessing technology, which I'm sure your scientists can adapt for your own... needs"

The Pakistani remained unconvinced. "As you are no doubt aware, we already possess the ability to manufacture nuclear weapons. Anything more advanced can always be bought from the Russians."

Wu Jian rolled his eyes. "They'll drag their feet and take forever to deliver second-rate goods. You want to buy Pacifican."

The Pakistani cocked his head.

Wu Jian sighed. "Look. Rwanda's an emerging market, like your nation. We spent an enormous amount of political capital convincing our corporations to invest in Rwanda… as we have done to convince them to invest in Pakistan. If our people and our corporations lose money over Rwanda… the Executive is going to have a harder time keeping Belt and Road afloat, and that might affect investment in your country a few years down the road. We want a stable, prosperous Pakistan as much as you do. You have interests in this. Consider our offer."

* * *

Wu Jian shook his head as he departed yet another inconclusive meeting with a representative. This wasn't going to work. He closed the door to his office, and turned to his assistants.

"We need to think sideways. Have a backup plan ready, just in case the Security Council cuts off space support."

He turned to a map of Africa. Rwanda, with its six million potential customers of consumer goods, stood out like a shining jewel, surrounded by other countries – each with tens of millions of potential customers - on all sides. Why couldn't the blasted place have a coastline for Marines to land on like a normal country?

Wu Jian smacked himself, and turned to his assistant.

"We've been going at this all wrong. Get me the Bureau Administrator. We need to cut a fallback deal with the Kenyans and Tanzanians, stat. And get me our RPF buddies. They know people in Uganda."

His assistant smirked.

"I'll get Defense on the line. This'll make the Air Force very happy."

Wu Jian shook his head. "No. This is strictly a fallback option. The civilizational interest demands that we preserve our freedom to use space-based weapons. And not a word of this to the French."

His assistant spoke up from her phone. "Air Force says bombers on nuclear alert can be repurposed in less than three hours. We can have stealth bombers over Rwanda in fifteen hours. But they need authorization from…"

"They'll get it. Tell 'em to gas up the bombers for when they do." Wu Jian reached for his phone.

* * *

 **April 8th 1994**

 **Lake Kivu Investment Zone, Rwanda**

Isabella gulped. With the attack helicopters and reinforcements of the quick-reaction force occupied, her Marines would be attacking the enemy without the overwhelming firepower to which Joint Government forces were accustomed. Isabella wished once more that she had had her mortar squad with her. Laser-guided mortars could have given her an overwhelming advantage in the coming firefight.

They had been scheduled for the next flight out. And the tilt-rotors had been committed elsewhere, against other elements of what seemed now to be a coordinated general push by the genocidaires across Rwanda.

But the enemy was advancing on the refugee warehouse. An immediate attack was essential, support or no.

"Go! Go! Go! Suppression now!" Isabella bellowed into her radio, and the chatter of light machine gun-fire filled the air.

Phineas poked his head over the top of the big, heavy air-conditioner. A wide boulevard lined with boxy, prefabricated, chevron-roofed light industrial buildings – with light spewing from every opening, lighting up the night – stretched away in front of him. He could just make out the TEXAN TEXTILES 得州布料sign on the roof of the nearest building.

Tracers streaked through the air as the Marines sought to scare the enemy into keeping their heads down. Small packets of Marines began to advance through the semi-darkness. Isabella poked her head out to see. Ferb pulled Phineas down.

Ground warfare basically boils down to fire and maneuver. One side shoots to keep the enemy (tanks, infantry, trucks, squads, battalions, divisions, etc.) cowering in holes, and moves troops to get around the holes so the enemy can be shot in the back or, more likely, forced out of position. The enemy tries to resist this by either out-shooting the advancing enemy or maneuvering in turn.

All of a sudden, the night sky came alive with fire. A staccato of explosions ripped through the night sky above the Marines as the enemy responded with a barrage of mortar fire – a barrage the Marines could not match. Simultaneously, the low and unwelcome thud-thud-thud of heavy machine-gun fire erupted across the street.

Someone screamed, and Isabella gritted her teeth as two unlucky Marines fell to heavy-machine-gun fire – the big rounds ripping them to shreds, body armor and all. Two rockets roared through the barrage, sending Marines to cover. "Fall back! Fall back! Back to cover!"

"Medic!"

A dazed Marine, holding a piece of bloody gauze to her abdomen, slumped in beside Isabella. "How the heck did they get that firepower in here?"

Phineas shook his head. "Boats. They had boats." He looked to Ferb, who tilted his head as he examined the darkened streetlamps and the lit buildings. "Isabella, why did we leave their lights on?"

"To ruin their night vision. Plus, we couldn't get at the power line."

Ferb facepalmed. The Marine spat. "They lit us up like frickkin spotlights!"

Isabella nodded. "Understood, corporal. We'll get their lights. Get ready to move in five."

Phineas's jaw dropped as he pondered how people could be induced to go back into that meat grinder. Ferb nodded vigorously. "The lights – we can use them! Isabella, we need a better plan! I have a plan!"

Isabella looked at the ground, lost in thought. "So do I."

* * *

The militiaman counted his blessings as he stood on the concrete-and-steel jetty. His position had left him far from the fighting, very close to the boats, and next to a doorway into the single-cell protein factory, which the foreigners surely would not bomb. True, he would not experience the thrill of battle, or be able to help his friends, or get the best loot. But there were downsides to everything.

His friend had not as been accepting of the situation, and had been complaining about it since the sergeant left.

A clang reverberated on the edge of the jetty. His friend stepped forward to investigate the sound… and fell headfirst into the water.

The militiaman hurriedly ran over to the edge of the jetty to pull his hapless friend from the water. He blinked, and squinted into the dark waters of Lake Kivu as he struggled to comprehend where his friend could possibly have gone.

A faint rippling of the water was the last thing he saw before three rocket-propelled bullets silently slammed into his head and chest, causing him to plunge headfirst into Lake Kivu.

* * *

Shego wrung out her wet hair, donned her night vision goggles, checked her knife, and smiled as she inserted a fresh barrel of twelve stacked rounds into her triple-barreled rocket-bullet machine-pistol. Learning to aim the thing from underwater - through the light-refracting air-water boundary - had been a hassle, but in hindsight, it had been totally worth it.

Shego crept through the now-unguarded door, and slipped into the installation.

* * *

Drew, his hands tied to his chair, took a moment to admire the line of one-storey tall bioreactors, or "chemostats", that towered over the center of the room. He swiveled his head, and tried to trace the pipes back to the towering nutrient feed hoppers that hung from the ceiling like giant metal fruits.

He had just found the methane feed pipe, the source of the energy and much of the carbon utilized by the rapidly-proliferating bacteria, when a voice rang out behind him.

"Dr. Andrew Theodore P. Lipsky. May I say, it is a great pleasure to meet you."

Drew, scared out of his wits, nevertheless grinned at the imposing French mercenary. "Why, thank you! I see my reputation precedes me! Now if you would just let me leave to continue my world-class research…"

The mercenary grinned back. "No, no, no. I must insist that you stay. After all, you are a key figure in the Joint Government scientific-industrial research apparatus, are you not? It would be tragic if you became collateral damage in an orbital strike… or if you were caught in the crossfire between Marines and the decent but misguided soldiers of a faction in this chaotic civil war."

Drew shook his head. "It certainly would. I wish you the best of luck in the coming hostage negotiations, and am willing to make degrading political statements in exchange for preferential treatment, food, bedding, and internet or library access. I'm a busy man."

The mercenary laughed, and tossed a food bar at the engineer. "Enjoy your last meal, Dr. Lipsky."

The Frenchman's satphone rang, and he began moving to the exit.

Drew gulped. "But surely I am worth more alive than dead?!"

The Frenchman chuckled as he left the chamber. "I'm afraid you are worth too much to the Pacifican scientific-industrial complex to let live, Dr. Lipsky."

Lipsky exhaled, looked at the food bar on the floor, tested the ropes binding his hands, experimentally hopped his chair forward, and shrugged. He wasn't hungry anyway.

* * *

A militiaman, walking along a pipe-lined corridor, was jerked soundlessly from the floor and pulled into the pipework of the ceiling, his hands grasping ineffectually at the repurposed power cord around his neck.

* * *

A pair of militiamen, rifles at the ready, strolled through the facility.

Their stroll was rudely interrupted when a shadow hidden in the dark corners of the pipework above swung a combat boot in each of their faces. The interruption was rendered permanent shortly thereafter.

* * *

The Frenchman returned his satphone to his pocket, and strolled back into the main chamber.

Drew gulped as the French mercenary reached for his pistol.

"No last words? A final monologue before you vanquish your foe? No leaving your henchmen to deal with your victim?"

The French mercenary chuckled.

"What do you think this is, a James Bond movie? Such stupidity does not exist in real life."

Drew laughed. "Well, I am a self-proclaimed mad scientist, and was hoping to make your job a little more entertaining…"

There was a flash and a bang, and Drew's ears rang as bursts of automatic fire filled the world around him. Drew felt someone drag his chair hastily across the room, and yelled in pain as the chair dropped to the ground. Someone pulled him to his feet.

A militiaman unexpectedly spun around the corner. Shego fired a burst of rocket-bullets into his face, and kept dragging Drew through the corridor.

"Drew! Run, you pansy!"

A burst of automatic fire forced the duo to the ground. Shego leaned around a large steel vat for a better look, and was forced back behind cover by more automatic fire. Shego swore, and yanked Drew down another corridor.

Shego ducked behind a pressure vessel. "Uh… Shego? This place is…"

"Creepy as heck, I know. But it's got good lines of fire and the cover looks solid."

A burst of automatic fire whizzed by, and Shego fired a burst through a gap between two pipes in response. Someone screamed.

"Case in point."

Drew stuttered. "Uh… Shego? There doesn't seem to be a way out. And… you're hurt."

Shego looked around, hoping the panicky scientist had made a mistake.

He was right on both counts. "Oh, snap."

* * *

 _This author sincerely apologizes for the unexpected year-long delay in putting out Chapter 9 - a mix of a failure to find a suitable direction for elements of the story and real-life pressures, and thanks readers for their patience. In the interval, this author shall shamelessly plug the First Space War - which, unlike this story, is complete! - to interested readers._


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